Of Love and Shadows

  A group of evangelicals arrived with their guitars, flutes, and bass drums, and began to intone hymns under the direction of the Reverend, who turned out to be a tiny man in a shiny jacket and funereal hat. The plaintive chorus and instruments were never quite in tune, though no one except Irene and Francisco seemed to notice. All the others had been hearing the music for several weeks, and by now their ears were accustomed to the discord.

  Father Cirilo also appeared, panting from the enormous exertion of pedaling his bicycle from the church to the Ranquileo home. Seated beneath the grape arbor, lost in melancholy divagations or prayers learned by memory, he moved his lips and swayed his white beard, which from a distance looked like a spray of orange blossoms pinned to his chest. Perhaps he had realized that the rosary of Santa Gemita blessed by the hands of the Pope was as ineffective in this case as the chanting of his Protestant colleague or the many-colored pills of the doctor from Los Riscos. From time to time, he consulted his pocket watch to verify the punctuality of the trance. Other persons, lured by the possibility of miracles, sat silent beneath the eaves of the house, in chairs lined up in the shade. Some discussed with deliberation the next planting, or a long-ago soccer match heard over the radio, never at any moment mentioning what had attracted them there, out of respect for the owners of the house, or because they were shy.

  Evangelina and her mother attended the guests, offering cool water with toasted flour and honey. Nothing in the girl’s aspect appeared in any way abnormal; she seemed tranquil, with a slightly foolish smile on her red-cheeked apple face. She was happy to be the center of attention in this small gathering.

  Hipólito Ranquileo spent a long while rounding up the dogs and tying them to the trees. They were barking too much. Then he explained to Francisco that they had to kill one of the bitches because she had dropped a litter the day before and eaten her own whelps, a crime as grave as a hen crowing like a rooster. Certain vices of nature must be rooted out to avoid infecting other animals. On this subject he was very delicate.

  It was at this point that the Reverend planted himself in the center of the patio and began an impassioned discourse delivered at the top of his lungs. All those present listened, not wanting to slight him, although it was evident that everyone except the evangelicals felt uncomfortable. “Rising prices! The high cost of living! This is a well-known problem. There is more than one way to stop it: jail, fines, strikes, among others. What is the heart of the problem? What is its cause? What is this ball of fire that inflames man’s greed? Behind it all lies a dangerous tendency toward the sin of avarice, the unrestrained appetite for earthly pleasure. This leads man away from our Holy Lord, it produces human, moral, economic, and spiritual instability, it unleashes the ire of our Lord God Almighty. Our times are like the times of Sodom and Gomorrah, man has fallen into the dark paths of error, and now he is harvesting his measure of punishment for having turned his back on his Creator. Jehovah is sending His warning in order that we may reflect on our ways and repent of our loathsome sins—”

  “Excuse me, Reverend, would you like some refreshment?” Evangelina interrupted, cutting the thread of inspiration with flaws still to be enumerated.

  One of the Protestant disciples, a squat and cross-eyed woman, went over to Irene to explain her theory about the Ranquileos’ daughter: “Beelzebub, prince of devils, has entered her body. Write that in your magazine, señorita. He likes to aggravate Christians, but the Salvation Army is stronger than he is, and we will vanquish him. Put that in your magazine—don’t forget.”

  Father Cirilo heard her last words, took Irene by the arm, and led her aside. “Pay no attention to her. These evangelicals are ignorant as sin, my daughter. They are not of the true faith, although they have some good qualities, we can’t deny that. Do you know they are abstemious? In that sect even confirmed alcoholics stop drinking. I respect them for that. But the Devil has nothing to do with this. The girl is crazy, pure and simple.”

  “And the miracles?”

  “What miracles are you talking about? Don’t believe that humbug!”

  Minutes before noon, Evangelina Ranquileo left the patio and went into the house. She unbuttoned her sweater, let down her hair, and seated herself on one of the three beds. Outside, everyone fell silent, moving to the small gallery to watch through the door and the window. Irene and Francisco followed the girl inside, and while he adjusted his camera to the darkness Irene readied the tape recorder.

  The Ranquileo home had a dirt floor, so tamped down, dampened, and tamped down again that it had acquired the consistency of cement. The sparse pieces of furniture were of ordinary unfinished wood; there were a few rush chairs and stools, a rough, homemade wooden table, and, as the only decoration, an image of Jesus with a flaming heart. The girls’ beds were curtained off from the rest of the room. The boys slept on pallets on the floor in an adjacent room with a separate entrance, thus avoiding promiscuity among brothers and sisters. Everything was scrupulously clean and smelled of mint and thyme; a bunch of red geraniums in a jar brightened the window, and the table was spread with a green linen cloth. Francisco saw in these simple elements a profound aesthetic sense and decided that later he would take a few photographs for his collection. He was never able to do so.

  * * *

  At twelve o’clock noon Evangelina fell back on the bed. Her body trembled and a deep long moan, like a love call, ran through her. She began to shake convulsively; her body arched backward with superhuman force. The girlish expression of a few minutes earlier was erased from her disfigured face and she was suddenly years older. A grimace of ecstasy, pain, or lust marked her features. The bed was rocking, and Irene, terrified, could see that a table a few feet from it was moving with no visible cause. Fear conquered her curiosity and she moved toward Francisco, seeking protection; she took his arm and pressed close to him, mesmerized by the spectacle of madness taking place on the bed, but her friend gently disentangled himself in order to operate the camera. Outside, the dogs howled an interminable lamentation of catastrophe in accompaniment to the sounds of song and prayer. Tin utensils danced in the cupboard, and a strange clatter lashed the roof tiles like a hailstorm of pebbles. A continuous tremor shook a platform in the rafters where the family stored their provisions, seeds, and work tools. From overhead a rain of maize was escaping from the seed sacks, contributing to the sensation of nightmare. On the bed, Evangelina Ranquileo writhed and twisted, the victim of impenetrable hallucinations and mysterious urgencies. The father, dark-skinned, toothless, with his pathetic sad clown’s face, watched glumly from the threshold, without moving closer. The mother stood beside the bed, her eyes rolled back in her head, perhaps attempting to hear the silence of God. Inside and outside the house, hope seized the pilgrims. One by one they drew near Evangelina to request their small, humble miracles.

  “Cure my carbuncles, santita.”

  “Don’t let them take my Juan off to the Army.”

  “God save you, Evangelina, full of grace. Heal my poor husband’s hemorrhoids.”

  “Give me a sign—what number should I play in the lottery?”

  “Stop the rain, handmaiden of God, before my goddam seeds rot in the ground.”

  Those who had come motivated by faith, or simply as a desperate measure, filed by in orderly fashion, pausing an instant beside the young girl to offer their plea, and then moved on, transfigured by the confidence that through His intermediary they would be favored by Divine Providence.

  No one heard the Army truck pull up.

  They heard commands, and before anyone could react, the soldiers invaded in a body, occupying the patio and rushing into the house with weapons in hand. They shoved people aside, scattered the children with their shouts, used their rifle butts to beat anyone who stood in their way, and filled the air with loud orders.

  “Face the wall! Hands behind your head!” bawled the bull-necked officer in command.

 
Everyone obeyed except Evangelina Ranquileo, imperturbable in her trance, and Irene Beltrán, frozen in her tracks, too shocked to be able to move.

  “Your documents!” bellowed a sergeant with Indian features.

  “I am a journalist and he is a photographer,” said Irene in a steady voice, pointing to her friend.

  They frisked Francisco, slapping his ribs, armpits, crotch, and shoes.

  “Turn around,” they commanded.

  The officer they would later come to know as Lieutenant Juan de Dios Ramírez stuck the barrel of his machine gun in Francisco’s ribs.

  “Name!”

  “Francisco Leal.”

  “What the shit do you two think you’re doing here?”

  “We’re doing an article, not shit,” Irene interrupted.

  “I’m not talking to you!”

  “But I’m talking to you, Captain,” she smiled, ironically raising his grade.

  The officer hesitated, unaccustomed to impertinence from a civilian.

  “Ranquileo!” he called.

  Immediately, a dark-haired giant, armed with a rifle and with an addled look on his face, stepped forward from the troops and stood at attention before his superior officer.

  “Is this your sister?” The lieutenant pointed to Evangelina, who was in another world, lost in tenebrous copulation with the spirits.

  “Affirmative, Lieutenant!” the man replied, rigid, heels together, chest expanded, eyes front, face like granite.

  At that instant a new and more violent rain of invisible stones lashed the roof. The officer sprawled face-down on the floor, imitated by his men. Stupefied, the others watched them slither on elbows and knees to the patio, where they sprang to their feet and zigzagged to take up positions. From behind the laundry trough, the lieutenant began firing in the direction of the house. It was a prearranged signal. Maddened soldiers, crazed by uncontrollable violence, squeezed their triggers, and in seconds the air was filled with noise, shouts, sobs, barking, crowing, and gusts of gunpowder. The people on the patio threw themselves to the ground; some took shelter in the irrigation ditch or behind trees. The evangelicals attempted to rescue their musical instruments, and Father Cirilo ducked beneath the table, clutching the rosary of Santa Gemita and crying out to heaven for the Lord of All Armies to protect him.

  Francisco Leal saw that bullets were striking close to the window; some penetrated the thick adobe walls like a burst of dark omens. He seized Irene by the waist and threw her to the floor, shielding her with his body. He felt her trembling in his arms, not knowing whether she was suffocating from his weight or shivering with fear. The moment the shouting and terror subsided, he got up and ran to the door, sure that he would find a half-dozen corpses; the only cadaver that met his eyes, however, was that of a chicken with its guts shot out. The soldiers were out of breath, possessed with madness, beside themselves with power. Neighbors and curiosity seekers lay on the ground, covered with dust and mud; children were crying; and the dogs were straining at their leashes, frenziedly barking.

  Francisco felt Irene pass by his side like an exhalation, and before he could stop her, she was standing in front of the lieutenant with her hands on her hips, shouting in an unrecognizable voice: “Savages! Beasts! Who do you think you are! Don’t you know you could kill somebody?”

  Francisco ran toward her, certain the lieutenant would place a bullet between her eyes, but was astounded to see that the officer was laughing.

  “Don’t be so nervous, honey, we were firing in the air.”

  “Don’t call me ‘honey’! And what are you doing here in the first place?” Irene scolded, unable to control her nerves.

  “Ranquileo here told me about his sister, and I said to him: ‘Where priests and doctors have failed, the armed forces will triumph.’ That’s what I told him, and that’s why we’re here. We’ll see if the kid keeps having her fits once I’ve taken her prisoner!”

  He strode in the direction of the house. Irene and Francisco followed like automatons. What happened then would remain engraved in their memories, and they would remember it as a succession of turbulent and disconnected images.

  Lieutenant Juan de Dios Ramírez marched over to Evangelina’s bed. The mother made a move to stop him, but he pushed her aside. Don’t touch her! the mother managed to scream, but she was too late; the officer had already reached out and grasped the afflicted girl’s arm.

  Before anyone could have predicted it, Evangelina’s fist flashed out and cracked against the officer’s ruddy face, striking him in the nose with such force that he tumbled backward to the floor. Like a useless ball, his helmet rolled beneath the table. The girl immediately lost her rigidity, her eyes were no longer wild, she stopped foaming at the mouth. The person who effortlessly seized Lieutenant Ramírez’s tunic, lifted him into the air, and carried him out of the house, shaking him like a mop, was a gentle fifteen-year-old girl with fragile bones, who not long before had been serving cool water with toasted flour and honey beneath the grape arbor. Only the prodigious strength betrayed her abnormal state. Irene reacted swiftly. She snatched the camera from Francisco’s hands and began to snap pictures, ignoring the aperture, hoping that some shots would come out in spite of the abrupt change in light intensity between the interior shadows and the reverberating light of midday.

  Through the lens Irene saw Evangelina haul the lieutenant to the center of the patio and with total indifference throw him to within a few meters of the Protestants who crouched there trembling. The officer tried to struggle to his feet, but she struck a few well-aimed blows to his neck that forced him back to the ground; she kicked him several times without rage, ignoring the soldiers who had surrounded her and aimed their weapons but in their shock did not dare fire. The girl seized the machine gun Ramírez still held clutched to his breast and hurled it aside. It fell in a mudhole where it sank before the impassive snout of a pig that snuffled at it, then watched it disappear, swallowed up in the mire.

  At that moment Francisco Leal came to his senses and remembered his training as a psychologist. He approached Evangelina Ranquileo and gently but firmly tapped her on the shoulder, calling her by name. The girl seemed to return from a long somnambulistic journey. She lowered her head, smiled timidly, and went and sat beneath the arbor, while the uniformed soldiers ran to recover the machine gun, clean off the muck, look for the helmet, give aid to their superior officer, help him to his feet, brush off his clothing. Are you all right, Lieutenant? Trembling, the pale officer pushed them aside, clapped the helmet on his head and grabbed his weapon, unable to find in all his vast repertoire of violence any action adequate for this situation.

  Motionless, terrorized, everyone waited for some atrocious response, some dark madness, some final calamity that would mean the end of all of them; they expected to be lined up against the wall and shot on the spot, or at least to be kicked into the Army truck and “helped” to disappear in some mountain ravine. After a long moment of hesitation, however, Lieutenant Juan de Dios Ramírez turned and walked toward the truck.

  “Retreat, assholes!” he shouted, and his men followed him.

  Pradelio Ranquileo, Evangelina’s oldest brother, with a stunned, sick expression on his dark face, was the last to obey, reacting only when he heard the roar of the engine. He ran and jumped into the rear of the truck beside his companions. Then the officer remembered the photographs, issued an order, and the sergeant turned and trotted to Irene; he took the camera from her, removed the roll of film and exposed it to the light. Then he tossed the apparatus over his shoulder as if it were an empty beer can.

  After the soldiers departed, a total silence reigned in the patio of the Ranquileos. Everyone was frozen in his purpose, as in a bad dream.

  Suddenly, Evangelina’s voice broke the spell: “May I serve you another refreshment, Reverend?”

  And then they could breathe, they could move, recover thei
r belongings, and shamefacedly leave.

  “God save us,” sighed Father Cirilo, brushing off his dust-covered cassock.

  “And keep us,” added the Protestant pastor, white as a rabbit.

  Irene recovered the camera. She alone was smiling. Once her fright had passed, she remembered only the grotesqueness of what had happened; she was thinking about the title of her article, and wondering whether censorship would permit her to mention the name of the officer who had received the drubbing.

  “That was a bad idea my son had, to bring the soldiers,” Hipólito Ranquileo offered.

  “Very bad,” added his wife.

  Shortly afterward, Irene and Francisco returned to the city. She was hugging a huge bunch of flowers to her breast, a gift from the Ranquileo children. She was in a good mood, and seemed to have forgotten the incident, as if she had not the slightest idea of the danger they had been in. Apparently the only thing that bothered her was the loss of the film; without it, it would be impossible to publish the information, because no one would ever believe such a story. She consoled herself with the thought that they could return the following Sunday and take new photographs of Evangelina during her trance. The Ranquileos had asked them to come again, since they were planning to slaughter a hog, an annual fiesta that brought together a number of neighbors for a barbaric feast. In contrast, Francisco’s indignation mounted throughout the return trip, and by the time he left Irene at her door he could scarcely contain himself.

  “Why are you so angry, Francisco? It was only some bullets fired in the air, and a mangled hen,” she laughed as she said goodbye.

  Until then he had tried to shield her from the unresolvable misery, the injustice and repression that he experienced daily and that were normal topics of conversation in the Leal household. He thought it extraordinary that Irene could sail innocently across the sea of anguish inundating the country, absorbed only in the picturesque and anecdotal. He was amazed to see her floating on air, untouched, buoyed up by her good intentions. Her unjustified optimism, her clean, fresh vitality provided a balm for the torments he suffered knowing he was powerless to change them. That day, nevertheless, he was tempted to take her by the shoulders and shake her until her feet touched the ground and she opened her eyes to the truth. But when he saw her standing by the stone wall of her house, her arms laden with wildflowers for her elderly friends and her hair tangled by the motorcycle ride, he felt that this creature was not made for sordid realities. He kissed her on the cheek, as close as possible to her lips, desiring passionately to remain forever by her side to protect her from the shadows. She smelt of herbs and her skin was cold.